href="#u03393e3f-0726-513e-b3bc-790595de9ba0">Saleha
My wife finally understood that I needed some time on my own . . .
I left her the big car and the driver so that she would be able to get around with the kids. I drove the smaller car to our chalet on the north coast, a three-hour drive alone with my thoughts and the voice of Umm Kulthum streaming from the cassette deck. At the gate, the security man checked my papers. In winter the resort management stepped up their security to prevent burglaries. A cool, refreshing breeze blew in from the sea. The place was completely empty and had the air of a fairy-tale town whose inhabitants had fled. All the chalets were locked and the streets deserted except for the lampposts. I drove past the main square and then turned up the street leading to our chalet. A new Japanese car suddenly appeared, driven by a man in his fifties and with a beautiful woman somewhat younger in the passenger seat. As they overtook me, I looked over at them . . . they must be lovers, come to the resort to get away from prying eyes. That had to be it. For such blushing languor and loving serenity are not typical of married life. The door of the chalet squeaked as I opened it. I followed my wife’s instructions to the letter. I started by opening the windows, plugging in the fridge and removing the covers from the furniture. Then I took a hot shower and went into the bedroom to unpack and hang up my clothes. I prepared my seat in the sitting room next to the balcony. I telephoned to order food from the only place open in winter, and perhaps owing to the sea air wolfed down the food and nodded off. By the time I woke up, night had already fallen. I looked out from the balcony at the empty resort. It was dark except for the strip of lampposts. I felt a little strange and then a worry came to my mind:
I was now completely alone and hundreds of kilometers from Cairo. What if something were to happen? If I had a heart attack, for example, or if armed robbers set upon me, would I be able to cope with any of those situations we read about in the newspapers?
My death would make a sensational headline: “Well-Known Novelist Murdered in Mysterious Circumstances!” I made an effort to pull myself together. Three kilometers away there was a new, well-equipped hospital I could get to if I suddenly fell ill, and there was no chance of a burglary with the security having been heightened at all the entry gates and even by the sea. The guards, all local Arabs familiar with the coastal region, patrolled twenty-four hours a day. But what if the guards got themselves together and started burgling? I decided that only happens in cheap detective novels. I took another shower. That was how I usually got rid of unwanted thoughts or feelings. Whenever I stood under the tap and felt the hot water pouring over me, I could calm myself down and clear my mind. Thus refreshed, I made myself a cup of coffee and set to work.
I connected my laptop to the printer and loaded a whole ream of paper. I had already proofread the novel a few times, but I resolved to go through it a final time. It would take me three hours, and I would end up not changing a single word, perhaps a comma or a period here and there. I closed the file on the laptop and went out onto the balcony, lit a cigarette and stared out at the empty street. I knew it would be hard to bring myself to print out the novel, that I would put off that singular moment as long as I could, but then, with a click, my novel would be born; it would come out into the light, suddenly transformed from the hypothetical text composed in my imagination into a finished, tangible
